“Mr. Morrison?” someone gasped.
The room fell silent, every head snapping toward Albin in disbelief.
The name carried weight, a legacy steeped in fame and reverence. The Morrison family of Isonridge was the crown jewel of the piano world.
They didn’t just play music—they defined it. Even more, the family patriarch served as the chairman of the Music Association, one of Isonridge’s most influential organizations.
Yet Albin wasn’t speaking about the current head of the family. He was talking about Josh Morrison.
He was the younger brother of the family head and had become the family’s prodigy, a legend in his own right.
Josh’s story was etched into the annals of music history. A child genius, he had captured the world’s heart at just ten years old, sweeping international piano competitions and performing to sold-out audiences worldwide.
Critics hailed him as the greatest pianist of his time, even comparing him to the masters of old.
But destiny had other plans. At the age of twenty, just as he stood poised to ascend the heights of his career, a tragic car accident ended his life.
The loss was felt deeply—by his family, his fans, and the world of music itself. It was as if the heavens had claimed him, unwilling to share such brilliance for too long.
Josh had left behind one final masterpiece—a piece he never finished. He had performed it only once, in fragments, during a private concert.
With no recordings of the event, the piece became the stuff of legend. Musicians tried and failed to recreate it, their attempts only underscoring the unattainable genius of the original.
Skepticism rippled through the audience. Someone muttered, “How would Albin even know? That was forty years ago. He wasn’t even born yet. How can he be so sure just from hearing a short prelude?”
Albin’s voice rose, steady and insistent. “There’s no mistake. My teacher was an ardent fan of Josh. While he couldn’t play the entire piece, he practiced the opening countless times. I’ve heard it a thousand times—I’d know it anywhere.”
Melany stepped forward, her voice soft with nostalgia. “He’s right. I was there that night. I heard Josh play it myself.”
Josh’s music had shaped Melany’s youth, and the memory of that unfinished piece had lingered in her heart like a bittersweet refrain.
On her last birthday, Melany had barely glanced at the mountain of gifts, instructing the staff to sort and log them for obligatory reciprocation.
When Elizabeth had asked what she truly wanted, Melany had spoken offhandedly, longing aloud to hear Josh’s unfinished melody once more.
It was a fleeting wish, yet Elizabeth had held onto it for an entire year, making it come true this very night.
Shawn, ever the devoted husband, clasped Melany’s hand and smiled warmly at Elizabeth. “She’s remarkable. With her beside Oliver, I’ll rest easy.”
